In This Empty Wilderness
by Emrys1411
Summary: "Peter, I killed him. He's dead, Peter." The world they once knew is gone and it's people lost forever. But there's always something left behind. Something worth scavenging - friendship, love, humanity. Post-apocalyptic series of one-shots. Mostly Peter and Neal, with Elizabeth and Mozzie featuring too. No slash. Angst, fluff, h/c, AU.
1. In This Empty Wilderness

**In This Empty Wilderness**

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**A/N:** This is just a one-shot and won't be continued so I won't be revealing much about what happened before this point as it's totally random!

**Warning:** Post-apocalpytic fic, with some disturbing themes.

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing, I _swear_.

* * *

The water was impossibly hot as it drifted, trickled over his skin and Neal tipped his head back, embracing the way the clear droplets ran over his eyes and touched his lips.

He hadn't had a shower, let alone a _hot_ one, in over two years.

He grinned, pearly whites flashing in the darkened bathroom and a small laugh echoed throughout the stall, giddy, gleeful and overwhelmed.

Peter replied after a few moments, having to talk louder over the hum of the generator and the pulsating of the shower. "Hurry up, Neal. We can't stay long."

"But Peter-" Neal inhaled and continued to scrub at his scratched and bruised arms with the brilliantly refreshing pepper mint shower gel. "This shower's so hot."

"I know, but it's not safe. We've already been here an hour so dry off and get dressed."

Neal scowled through dripping eyelashes and reluctantly shut off the taps, groaning as the heat immediately began to dissipate and that clawing, frightening chill took a hold of his body once again. He saw Peters flashlight flicker through the distorted glass, first in his direction and then out into the hallway of the abandoned house (the only one they had ever found that contained a _working_ generator) to check for anything remotely threatening.

Neal stilled, as did Peter because it was quiet.

Sure, in a world where 99.91% (or thereabouts) of its people were either dead or missing, it was _always_ quiet, but not like this.

"Hurry up, buddy." Peter whispered, reaching blindly to grasp Neal's clothes and shove them into the stall.

Neal shook in both fear, exhaustion and cold as he pulled on his pants, shirt, jacket and sneakers before tossing his rug sac neatly over one shoulder.

His clothes stuck to his damp skin, making him crawl and inch and with a violent shiver, he stepped out into the bathroom and spared a glance with the former FBI agent.

Peter had drawn his shot gun and buckled his own bag around his shoulders and waist and he raised the weapon, hands steady, ready.

"Keep behind me-" The older man whispered and he apparently knew what his best friend was going to say, "_Don't _argue."

And so Peter let the way towards the door, poking his head out into the shadowed hallway looking both ways, gun levelled and cocked and prepared to take the head of anyone or anything that could hurt them.

_Kill_ them.

Or take them.

Neal still wasn't sure which he'd prefer.

Left, right, left, right, left.

No one, not a soul, not a glimmer of life besides the scurry of diseased mice and cockroaches in their crevices. It was as dark as the hour just before dawn inside the house because for some unknown reason, the lights wouldn't work and any stray rays of ultra violet that managed to pierce the heavy, sodden curtains were absorbed and scattered in the dust, the darkness.

Neal moved stealthy behind his friend as Peter led the way down the hallway towards the stairs, picture frames still hung, still crooked upon the graying walls of the house. Through the inkiness, Neal could make out the radiant and smiling face of a little girl who was captured in every photograph, adored, loved.

But then _it_ happened and her parents, a short man, a tall woman, were gone and so was she. Neal swallowed back the bile in his throat as they passed the last bedroom, its door not quite shut, and its eerie stillness unsettling.

Peter seemed to notice Neal's tension and the smell and he gently tugged on his friends sleeve to urge him forward in the gloom.

Once they had conquered the narrow stairs, they pushed out of the front door and onto the street where only silence remained and the forsaken and rusted wreckages of vehicles lined the streets, the sidewalks.

The trees had grown in those two years at an unnaturally fast rate and they twisted and looped around the lamp posts and overhead cables, leaves and vines entangled in one giant web of empty wilderness, encasing a lost civilisation in nature once again.

"There's nothing here." Neal murmured as the wind picked up and one of the flyers from the early days blew and crumpled on the ground where it was trapped beneath a car tire. "We should head back."

"Yeah." Peter simply nodded and hitched his gun over his shoulder as they began to walk down the centre of the road, the summer heat causing the uneasiness to fade just a little so they could relax in the forgotten world that was once their home.

"You never told me, but did Elle get anything off the radio?" Neal asked quietly, his throat sore and raw after the last of the fresh water they'd brought on their expedition had ran out.

"Something like that Neal, I think I would have mentioned it." Peter smiled, the lines around his eyes and mouth deepening in placid contentment. "Even Mozzie finally admitted it was just a stray signal bouncing around the atmosphere."

"Worth a try."

"Hmm." Peter sighed and they continued walking, at a slower pace than one who deem sensible in those days with those dangers but they were both tired of rushing.

Of _running._

Besides, they were alone and they knew that because there was a small brigade of pigeons circling the trees, gray and black feathers falling and twirling in the July evening. There was also a cat, a little scrawny thing, all bones with a layer of dull tabby fur and one eye and a bent tail and it shot out between two trucks into Peter and Neal's path.

They stopped.

The cat stopped.

Humans and felines alike, _stared_.

"Hey, buddy. You look hungry." Neal whispered softly as he crouched down, ignoring the enraged hissing of the cat as its hackles rose and its claws dug into the tarmac.

But there was also a desperate growling emitting from its chest, within its stark and jutting ribs.

It was starving and couldn't help but creep forward, warily, as Neal pulled out a tin he'd been carrying around in his pocket and then his knife.

The cat seemed to yelp as a distant, long lost part of the former house pet recognised the label and it edged directly in front of Neal Caffrey, begging.

"I'm not going to ask why you're carrying a tin of cat food around in your pocket, Caffrey." Peter smirked at the two but didn't move.

"For times like these, Peter." Neal flashed a grin and grimaced as he began to tear through the metal of the container and get to the stuff inside.

The cat had got over its initial hatred and now had two paws on Neal's leg, head stretched up, lips parted, chest heaving.

"Don't touch the cat, its fleas probably carry the plague." Peter laughed, but there was an undertone of warning in his voice which Neal acknowledged.

"Eh, it didn't kill me last time."

Neal , with his elbow, pushed the cat away so he could empty the contents of the can onto the tarmac and the second he withdrew, the animal had leapt upon its prey and was devouring the jelly and meat without ever stopping for breath.

While it ate ravenously, Neal stood and with Peter, began to continue down the street, towards their temporary home.

"Remember to tell Mozzie we leave tomorrow. We can't spend all our time waiting for him." Peter said as he kicked a stray coke can from his path and watched it rattle and roll in the drain.

"You'd never leave him behind." Neal smiled cheekily because they both knew it was true.

It was then that Peter looked back over his shoulder and sure enough, the cat had finished its food and was jogging quietly behind the two humans, looking happier than it had reason to be.

"Oh look, you've got a friend."

Neal frowned and then caught up, eying the pitiful cat with a shrug of his shoulders.

He clicked his tongue and the animal moved faster, its lemon yellow eyes fixed firmly on the younger human with the food.

"You can't keep the cat, Neal." Peter remarked immediately before his friend got any ideas.

"You've got Satchmo." Neal countered, just as quickly.

"Satchmo is _useful._"

"Cats hunt mice. Satchmo is scared of mice."

Peter held up his hands in mock defeat and nudged Neal on the shoulder playfully.

"Fine, fine. What's his name?"

"_Her_ name." Neal corrected with raised eyebrows, "is Asha."

"Asha? Why?"

Neal inhaled the sweet scent of summer and let the flap of the pigeons wings and the tapping of Asha's paws lull him to oblivion.

"It's Sanskrit." Neal said as if expecting that to mean anything to Peter but as the sky glowed it's most vibrant blue and the sidewalk sparkled with the remnants of warm summer rain, Neal wasn't afraid anymore.

For the first time in a long time, that tiny bud of light ignited inside him and it took a moment for him to work out what it was at first, but then he got it.

"Neal, what does Asha mean?" Peter questioned quietly, suddenly sensing the importance of the name choice.

"Hope. It means _Hope._"


	2. Lost Souls, Dead World

**Lost Souls, Dead World.**

**A/N:** This isn't a multi-chapter fic, just a series of random post-apocalyptic one shots with no chronological order. This one-shot is set just after 'the world ended'...even I don't know what happened. Reviews are appreciated!

**Warning**: Disturbing themes, AU.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

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Two white beams of light split the darkness and illuminated a few metres of the highway in front, the gravel, the peeling paint of the road markers, the dead vermin scattered on the tarmac. It wasn't much to go by, but Peter wasn't too concerned about hitting any other vehicles because it was unlikely they'd see one. In fact, it was an insane idea so he let his foot rest slightly heavier on the gas peddle, ignoring the old sense of alarm that sparked up.  
He didn't have to worry about speed limits any more.  
Only just about everything else instead.  
It was night - or early morning, but it didn't make much difference.  
The sky was black, the stars were hidden behind a burst of rain clouds and the moon and it's familiar man were somewhere far away.  
So very far away.  
"Peter, you're not watching the road."  
Peter had thought Neal was asleep, like everyone else, but the soft voice from the back seat brought Peter to his sense and he glanced in the rear view mirror.  
"Not many pedestrians to worry about, Neal." The older man let a smirk grace his lips, just because that's what he would have done before, in another life. "At least, not ones I mind hitting."  
Neal grinned in the dark, teeth flashing white and sharp and only for a second. The former con artist shifted, wrapping his blanket tighter around his slim (too slim) shoulders with a sigh. Beside him, Mozzie slept as did Diana, who was curled up like a cat against the door. Elizabeth dozed at Peter's side, quietly.  
"I can take over if you want, you look tired."  
"I'm always tired."  
"I know."

They both fell silent, with only the sound of the tires on the stones and the wind tearing through a lost word to hide the harsh breathing of Neal.  
Harsh and ragged, with a hint of something else.  
Something _worse._  
A strangled sob, perhaps the one in his throat that he'd kept swallowing to prevent himself from breaking.  
Or falling apart.  
"Do you know where we are?"  
_Small talk_, Peter noted inside his head, _to hide what he really wants to ask. _So the elder man played along, not because he couldn't bear to see the pure misery and hopelessness and grief on his friends face, but because it was _easier. _  
"Somewhere near Houston, I think." Peter replied, just as casually.  
"I went to Houston once."  
"How was it?"  
"It was okay."

And that was it for another hour, maybe two as the night grew darker and colder as dawn approached bearing it streaks of warmth and blue sky that they so desperately craved. Peter kept one eye on Neal, a prone, huddled figure in the back seat with two glowing eyes that stared at nothing in particular.  
There was nothing left to stare at.  
The further away from the city Peter drove, the further away from the memories they got, the louder the world became.  
In a barren land of roads and grass, it was much louder then the city because it was supposed to be quiet. Not like the city. The urban tangle of buildings and cars and subways should have been _buzzing_ with noise, stray signals, raised voice, coffee mugs, bicycle bells - but no, only silence.  
Only once they were in the quiet did they realise just how hushed the abandoned civilisation was.  
Neal had noticed it too and Peter ignored the shinning of his eyes, the way they glimmered with the tears his pride refused to shed.  
"Are you hungry?" Peter asked, gaze on the little patch of road he could see over the scratched bonnet as the vehicle continued forwards.  
"A little, but I'm okay." Neal answered after a moment's hesitation, when he'd finished praying that his voice was strong enough to reply.  
What use was prayer now?  
"We'll stop at dawn, find somewhere to settle for a few days. How does that sound?" Peter kept his voice level, to hide the feelings of despair that threatened to leach away any comfort he had for Neal.  
He had to stay strong, for _them_.  
"Sounds good. "  
He was going to say something else, lips parted, Adam's apple bobbing, but then he didn't. So Peter waited.

Five minutes.  
Ten.  
Half an hour.  
"But Peter..._then what?"_  
"I don't know, Neal." That was all he could say.  
A sharp intake of breath, a click of teeth, a forehead on the window pane.  
"Peter...we're going to die, aren't we?"  
The older man didn't answer immediately because in truth, he wasn't thinking about what to say. There were no words that could ever reassure Neal, or Elizabeth, or any other lost soul in a dead, decaying world. He couldn't even convince himself that they weren't doomed.  
But for Neal Caffrey, he would try.  
"No, Neal. We made it this far. We're not going to die."  
"How do you know that Peter? Everyone else did."  
"Because I'm here, buddy." Peter said, in nothing more than a whisper that only his former CI could hear. "I _won't_ let that happen."  
Neal wasn't sure why he believed that, but he did.  
He believed in that, in Peter Burke, more than he believed in anything else in the darkness.  
"Okay."  
And maybe, until Dawn broke and shared her warmth, that was enough.  
At least for a little while.


	3. Bang, bang, creak

_**Bang, bang, creak.**_

**A/N:** Again, just a random one-shot that doesn't have much meaning at all, but I thought I'd upload it.

**Warning:** AU, disturbing themes.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing here.

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"Stay away!" His voice had a sharp rasp and it was high-pitched and harsh, like chalk being dragged slowly down a chalk board. The man's words hadn't been used in a very long time, that Neal could tell by the way they came out in quick, short breaths, almost as if the man had to remember _how_ to speak. "Keep away, or I'll gut you open."

Neal remained where he was, in the opening of the alley between two terrace houses but he took one small, hesitant step backwards – just in case.

The stranger, who was about five meters down the alley by an overflowing trashcan, could have been thirty-five.

Or maybe sixty-five, it was hard to tell.

His beard was black streaked with silver and it was a tangled knot of spider webs with food, twigs and who knows what else knotted into the matted hair. Two heavy eyebrows concealed almond shaped eyes (one of which was oozing red and swollen shut) and the man's mouth was nowhere to be seen. Neal could only see two taunt cheekbones, scratched and scarred and a pale hand poking out of the sleeve of an unraveling coat.

Yes, just one hand.

Neal didn't want to think about where the other one went.

The man was about six feet tall but hunched over, spine curled, head bent, he appeared small and tiny like a timid mouse cornered by the cat. His numerous layers of clothing (slacks, duffel coat, a belt without a buckle) were stained, filthy, gray and unrecognizable for what they were.

They didn't look very warm, not with all the holes.

The man stabbed his kitchen knife wildly in the air towards Neal again, but his hand was dropping, too weak to hold the flimsy piece of cheap metal he found on the ransacked shelves of Wal-Mart.

"I don't have any food, okay?! So just keep your distance."

Neal held up his hands at the fear masked by aggression of the stranger he'd happened to bump into while wandering the silent, deserted streets of some small town outside Kansas.

This man was the first living human being Neal had seen in months, besides Peter and the others.

He'd seen plenty of dead ones though.

"I'm not going to hurt you, okay?" Neal whispered, softly as he blinked slowly in the yellow light of dawn.

"Oh yeah? That's what they all say." The man swallowed with a gulp, but tightened his grip on the knife.

"They?" Neal winced as the question hung heavily between them, a mutual feeling of dread.

Both men new who 'they' were.

But both men wished they didn't.

"Yes_. They_."

"So you've seen them?"

"Not recently. Not for a long time."

"How long?"

"Why?"

"Just curious." Neal shrugged, jarring his bruised shoulder and the other man seemed to notice the flash of pain that crossed the younger man's milky white face with a gasp. "I haven't seen them for a while either."

The stranger grunted in reply, body twitching as he looked over his shoulder and down the alley which led to nowhere. He couldn't get out unless Neal moved (he certainly didn't have enough strength to scale the wall and jump into the garden) but the younger man obviously had no intention of leaving.

Not yet.

"What's your name?" Caffrey questioned, gently.

The man might have clenched his jaw beneath his beard, bit his tongue, let his lips curl over his teeth in a snarl.

But something made the other ragged survivor reply, some desperate need for human communication.

He hadn't spoken in _so_ long, not a word.

"My name's Albert."

"Albert."

"Yes."

"No, it's not."

"No, it isn't."

There was a lapse of silence during which Neal looked at the sky, at the sun which was already beginning its race across the pale purple expanse of atmosphere.

The birds were singing in the chimney stacks.

The breeze blew the shutters on the house's window so they knocked against the wall.

_Bang, bang, creak._

"I'm Neal."

"Why are you telling me?" The man took a step backwards and he couldn't stop the cry that escaped his lips and Neal looked down at the floor to see why.

Glass, shards of plastic had cut in the stranger's _bare_, blackened feet.

He had no shoes.

The soles of his feet were frayed, bleeding, crusting with two rags wrapped around his ankles in what looked like failing make-shift shoes.

"Where are your shoes?" Neal asked, because he cared.

"I don't have any."

Neal was about to speak again, he couldn't help himself. It hadn't occurred to him that he was terrifying the other guy as a young man blocking the only entrance to freedom with a blank face and vacant blue eyes to match.

"Neal! Neal! Where are you?!" _Peter._

The man jumped with a painful wrench of his neck as he looked around as other voices bombarded his ears.

So many _people._

"Neal!" Elizabeth sounded scared, but Neal didn't let that phase him.

"I have to go." Caffrey said in regret and he truly did regret it. "You could come with me."

The stranger chuckled - or sobbed – but shook his head madly and clenched his fists, his knuckles bone white beneath his skin as he clutched frantically at the blade.

"Keep away from me." The stranger spat with as much venom as a cowering puppy.

"Okay." But before Neal turned away, towards the cries of his friends, he stopped and looked one last time at the man.

And then he did something neither survivors in the new world understood.

Neal Caffrey bent down onto one knee and began to untie the shoe laces of his scuffed, yet perfectly good, sneakers.

He removed one.

And then the other, slowly.

When he stood up, there were two bare-foot men in the alley, one outrageously calm and the other incredibly frightened.

Frightened and shamed.

Neal nudged the sneakers forwards towards the man with his toe until they were in reachable distance of the elder one.

Without another word, Neal turned away and stepped back out on to the street and began the painful walk across gravel stones towards his friends who were still calling out for him.

He saw Peter first and then Elizabeth, who smiled in relief.

"Neal, where were you?" She called, throwing her arms in the air, loosely pinned back hair blowing gently in the breeze.

"Just looking at something." The former con artist answered calmly, noticing the way Peter stared at his feet.

"Neal, where are your shoes?"

"I lost them."

"Lost them?"

"Yeah, lost 'em."

With a bemused shrug, the others turned away but before Neal did, he took one last look towards the alley and smiled.

His sneakers were gone.


	4. The Shallow Shores Of The Sea

**The Shallow Shores Of The Sea**

**A/N:** Again, this is set in the early days after what I now think is some kind of zombie apocalypse….I haven't decided yet, but as this is a series on one-shots with no major plot, it doesn't matter. This one is kind of angsty, as most of these will be.

**Warning**: AU, disturbing themes, graphic scenes of violence.

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing here.

* * *

Safety _off._

Cock the gun, pull back the handle, _click._

Take aim, _focus._

Squeeze the trigger, _bang._

Neal had never liked guns. The weight of the metal or the coldness of it, the way it shuddered when released, a dash of a smoke, a flash of a bullet, a speck of blood.

Or a lot of blood, in this case.

Darker than it should been, the blackest of burgundy, all lumpy and sticky and crawling with insects.

Splattered across his face, smudged under his eye socket, tainting his lips.

He could _taste_ it.

The rotten tang of decay and salt and soil.

Then Neal was on his knees, on the rocks, his head bent low against the spray of the tide and the sand in the air, in his eyes, burning them raw. He dropped the gun, it was too heavy in his weak and shaking grip and he watched with a stunned interest as it clattered down the bank and into shallow shore of the sea, slotting neatly between the pebbles with a light splash.

Splash as the corpse hit the water.

A gurgle as the cold liquid seeped into its lungs, drowned it, _dead._

It was an _it._

_It_ wasn't human. Not anymore.

_It_ had been, once upon a time and not too long ago. Days ago, that's all.

_It_ had been walking to work at the local news station, drinking coffee (far too strong), eating steak (medium rare), popping pills before bedtime (the insomnia, you see), taking women to restaurants (not just it's wife) and wishing for another life when it had consumed too much alcohol on a Saturday night. _It_ was always a depressing drunk, ever since Artie Hudson gave it cider when _it_ was 15.

15 was too young, _it's_ mother had said.

Neal thought for a second that he was going to be sick after looking into those eyes, rolling, glazed and the murkiest of greys and he brought his fist up his mouth, teeth sinking into the knuckles, trying to fight away the lump in his throat.

"He's here! He's over here!"

Neal did register Mozzie's voice but he ignored it, bluntly and because he didn't think the bald man would appreciate vomit on his shoes.

Then there was a hand on the nape of his neck, squeezing, fingers lifting up his chin, tracing the contours of his face until Neal opened his eyes. Neal was glad it was Peter.

"Peter, I killed him. He's dead, Peter." Neal felt his voice break, but he didn't feel it.

He was too numb for that.

"He was dead already, Neal. You did him a favor." Peter whispered, sighing and releasing the breath he hadn't realized he was holding until his forehead was resting against Neal's.

"I killed him. I picked up the gun and I shot him in the head. And now he's dead." Neal had his hands wrapped around the collar of Peter's jacket, a vice like grip and he thought he heard the material tear.

"Neal, Neal, you had to do it." Peter said softly and with that tone he reserved only for children and widows. He lifted his head up, both hands on the sides of the younger man's face to make him focus.

"He's in shock, Suit." Mozzie said from somewhere far away.

"I can see that, Mozzie!" Peter snapped without any real venom, his gaze never leaving the gaunt, ivory white and speckled red face of Neal Caffrey. "Give me your jacket, we need to warm him up."

Peter would have given Neal his own, but the conman refused to let go of his only source of stability.

His only lifeline.

"Peter…" Neal let the name tumble from his lips, tasting the salt again, tainting the word.

"I'm here, Neal." Peter replied immediately as he put his hands under his friend's arms and hauled him up and held him there as Mozzie wrestled the jacket onto Neal's quaking and uncooperative frame. "Let's get you out of here."

"But I killed him, look, he's dead – that was me, _I_ did that."

"You had too. Now come on."

But Neal Caffrey wouldn't move, he just dug his feet into the sand and blinked rapidly, trying to get another glimpse of the corpse that had technically been dead for eight days, not a few minutes. The tide washed over their feet, but it didn't take the pain away and bury it in the ocean like it took the shells.

Peter put one arm around his friends shoulder and picked up the gun with his other hand, slipping it quickly into his pocket. With the help of Mozzie, they both managed to drag Neal away from the rocks and towards the embankment where Elizabeth juggled a blanket, water and other things that couldn't really help Neal anymore.

"Honey, is he alright?" She spoke quickly, efficiently while glancing both ways down the road to check there was no one else around. "_Is he_?"

"I don't know." Peter took the blanket from her and wrapped it tightly around the younger man until he couldn't move an inch, his heart thudding within his chest at the sight of the blood, the vacancy of pale blue eyes and the way Neal shivered.

The former agent pushed Neal into the back of the SUV and got in beside him, running his hands up and down Caffrey arms before rubbing circles on his back in what he hoped was a soothing motion.

"Neal, you need to snap out of this – "

"Suit, we _need_ to go." Mozzie made a yelping noise and slammed the door shut behind them as he climbed into the front with Elizabeth. "Drive, Lady Suit."

Peter didn't bother buckling Neal's seatbelt because he tucked Caffrey against his side under one arm, his chin resting on top of the others head, a hand in his dark hair to stop him moving, stop him _feeling_.

They had a long drive to nowhere ahead.

Peter tightened his hold on the younger man when he saw a single tear, a crystal drop, burn it's way through the grit, dried blood and sand on Neal's cheek until it all blurred and became a part of Neal's sickly complexion.

"It's okay, Neal. You had to do it. None of this is your fault." But the words meant nothing.

Peter didn't know whether Neal had killed before, but this time it was different. This time it was the declaration of a new world – a world where you killed to survive and you weren't supposed to look back or care or _feel_ any of it.

A world where you weren't allowed to be _human._

And Neal cried because he wasn't sure he could live in that world.

He wasn't sure if he _wanted_ to.

And so Peter held him through the night because he couldn't think of anything else to do.

That was all he could do – show Neal that he _had_ to live in that world, but that didn't mean he had to be _alone_.


	5. Amber Pools Of Shade

**Amber Pools Of Shade**

**A/N:** I decided to try and write something 'happy' for a change. Hopefully it didn't fail too badly. Anyway, I got the idea of this location from the TV show 'Carnivale' which Tim Dekay (Peter) was in. Get this, on it he played a character called Clayton Jones - that's a very similar name to Clinton Jones from White Collar, isn't it? I thought that was quite cool.

**Warning**: None!

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing here.

* * *

Each grain of sand radiated its own heat almost as if every speck of the fine rock was its own little sun – yellow, bright and burning. If was only through the adrenaline that Neal kept running, acknowledging but ignoring the painful stinging sensation of the boiling sand as it scorched the bare soles of his feet.

He was almost there.

He was so close, so _very_ close.

If he missed this – then it was all over.

He pushed his legs harder, his muscles screaming and seizing all at once and he dove forward.

Arms outstretched, reaching blindly, in futile.

His body arched on impact with the hot sand.

Then he skidding, getting singed as he did so.

But Neal Caffrey was too late.

"Out!"

"No, Peter, that's not fair – "

"You lost, Neal. Deal with it." Harsh words but a heartwarming grin swam into view as he rolled onto his back, wincing.

"I remember you being a professional Baseball player at one point, Agent Burke. I think that puts me at a slight disadvantage." Neal hissed softly as he jumped back to his feet, sore and slick with sweat as the sun continued to beat down on the Oklahoma desert.

"He has a point, Hun." Elizabeth smiled from her place on the roughly marked baseball pitch beside the road that ran through the barren landscape.

"Well excuse me, but there aren't many 12th century priceless antiquities worth stealing in these parts." Peter tossed the ball from his left hand to his right. "It was this or Poker – and I'm not playing against Mozzie again."

"That's only because you lost, Suit." Mozzie piped up as he walked back from his position and towards the others.

"My head wasn't in the game." Peter said after a moment's hesitation while thinking of an excuse to cover up his frankly embarrassing loss at Poker the night before.

"Oh really?" Neal grinned with narrowed eyes and teeth that looked whiter because the sand dusting his flushed cheeks.

"Yes, because there isn't much satisfaction in winning a pile of _rocks_."

Elizabeth laughed from somewhere deep inside, some forgotten place that had to snatch glimpses of smiles wherever it found them – which wasn't very often at all, not anymore.

Mozzie shook his head in exasperation as he pulled his cap back down over his head to shield his bald scalp from the late afternoon sun, which still shone fiercely.

That prompted Neal to reach for his own cap, only to discover that it wasn't there. He glanced back at the 'pitch', sighing in annoyance at the sight of a red dash of color against the layers of simmering gold, yards away.

The other three had gone to sit in the scarce shade of the vehicle and were passing around a bottle of water. Neal let his head drop as he began to walk towards his hat, watching in awe as the sand slid between his toes and spilled over them, no longer too hot to touch as he realized the landscape was rapidly cooling as the sun set and the blistering heat began to dissipate.

But no matter how far Neal seemed to walk, the speck of scarlet was hardly visible anymore.

Neal walked faster, his throat burning, his eyes screwed shut against the glare of the sand.

Wildly, he looked around.

But his hat wasn't there.

It had never _been_ there.

Panting slightly, Neal let his eyes roam over the desert with it's saffron ridges and amber pools of shade from the hills themselves. It stretched on forever, blurring until it became a part of the cloudless sky, blue and yellow – that's all there was.

Except for the vultures circling overhead, a rotating ring of flapping black wings and empty stomachs.

"Neal! What are you looking at?"

The former con man spun on his heels, looking back towards his friends on the small gravel road that stretched deeper into the oblivion of the desert and the silent world beyond.

Peter had stood up to call him.

"My hat – I thought – " But Neal only spoke in a whisper, to himself and his addled mind.

With a frown, he began to head back, only stopping for a moment to look at a dead lizard half buried in the ground. A burnt out shell of skin.

"What were you doing?" Peter asked as he handed Neal the bottle when the younger man dropped onto the ground in between Peter and Mozzie.

"Nothing. Just…everything."

Peter gave a curious glance at his friend but then moved on and pulled out Neal's hat from behind him.

"Put this on or you'll get heatstroke." The older man all but wrestled it onto Neal's head until it was pulled right down over his eyes with a chuckle. "There, that's better."

"Thanks." Neal grinned, readjusting the cap so he could actually _see_. "I feel better already."

With a soft twitch of his lips, Peter knocked Neal lightly on the cheek with his knuckles. "Good."

"Who wants some pineapple of the canned variety?" Elizabeth asked, ruffling through one of the bags that had been propped up against the SUV's tire.

"I don't mind if I do, Lady Suit." Mozzie replied as he cleaned his glasses lenses with the edge of his shirt.

"I thought you didn't like Pineapple, Moz? "

"That was before there wasn't a significant possibility of me getting scurvy. Besides, I supposed it's not _that_ bad."

"Well, Mozzie, if you'd prefer, I could go and harvest some fresh and juicy mango from that tree over there? Or maybe you'd like some strawberries – I have a plant growing in the trunk." Peter asked with a wry grin.

"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit." Mozzie replied indignantly, nose aloft.

"Wit was _never_ Peter's strong point." Neal muttered, but still smiling widely.

Peter raised an eyebrow at his former CI. "Well, Neal, if that's how you feel then perhaps you'd prefer some canned kidney beans instead?"

"Ah…no, thanks Peter. Pineapple will do just fine. Wonderfully, actually."

"You sure?"

"Absolutely, but –"

"Good. Now shut up and eat your fruit."


End file.
